[more light! more light!]
Spledging along the chalky coast. .. But when nothing inland jumps, he swims on.
But he can see! Bowl of blue. Neon fish among the ancient cities, antlers, strands of DNA. Drifting lamplight of jellyfish in his way. Upstart masses housing such brief windows of consciousness. Stoloniferous! No one sees as he does now. Here lie the old possibilities. In water, which blurs and clarifies. So close to life is life's absence. Cold soup. What's, for instance, poison but motion stopper, food getter. Pain is nearly always beside the point. Altogether uniqueless, as a lmost no one anymore will grant. One species of box has 4 brains, 24 eyes, and still it seeks bottom to sleep in peace like the others the night away. Because it knows. Better.
Weight the body. Say a few words. Words like water drops, paragraphs like pools. Really, he thinks, this is all anyone wants: closure encapsulated: last utterances floating forever in perfect bubbles above their floating heads. The sea is nothing like us, but it knows, deep down, what we want: end without conclusion, eternal returns. Mistress, Maker, take from me
this impulse first. Swift-swell my soul beyond the clockwork of perception. (Yet still allow it to retain its insoluble self?) Animal drift of the eternal present-He envies the shark's vestal vision. Well, why not someone just like him? A marvel. Comic.
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho